Here Be Witches

by Sarah Mussi

  ‘How do you know that?’ I ask.

  ‘Because that day there will be equal darkness to equal light, and such balances are important in magic. It will be then, that Oswald will act. He will have the power of the witches with him, for their day doesn’t end until sunrise, and he will have the influence of Draco behind him, for at that hour Polaris must shift. Oswald will use these advantages to strike and slay all the knights, then he will be able to seize the Golden Throne.’

  ‘But Nan,’ George starts tickling my feet for some reason. ‘Apparently the Golden Throne isn’t in the cave. That’s what we learned in school. Merlin took it and hid it among the cliffs north of Crib-y-Ddysgl, under Garnedd Ugain, just in case.’

  Gran nods. ‘That may be true, but it may not be. Though, with Merlin’s High Magick broken, no hiding place is safe. In any case, first Oswald must get rid of his enemies.’ Gran stares thoughtfully at the saucer again. ‘He has somehow disposed of Henry, so his next plan will be to defeat the knights, by any means he can.

  My heart skips a beat. Disposed of Henry.

  ‘But,’ argues George, skilfully tilting his piping so that it looks as if he is blowing a flute. ‘The Sleepers in the cave are … well … asleep, so they’re not much of a threat, are they?’

  ‘But Sior,’ reminds Gran, ‘they can be woken up.’

  I breathe in deeply, remind myself to be strong: nobody can dispose of Henry for very long.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say poking George with my piping, ‘nobody is going to carry on having a nap when the Golden Throne is under attack, are they?’

  ‘Ellie, use the copper piping properly,’ reminds Gran. ‘The Coraniaid are always listening.’

  ‘OK, fair point,’ says George, pointedly hissing through his piping.

  ‘There’s a bell in the cave, and anyone who enters knocks against it. That wakes the knights up, and as they sleep standing up, leaning on their shields, they are all ready to go,’ adds Gran.

  ‘WOW!’ blows George. ‘All up-an-at-it! All Bam! Boom! Kazap!’

  Gran sighs. ‘Oswald would have no chance of success if the High Magick was still in place, for none can enter that cave without ringing that bell. But now, if he can raise his army, why, he could send in the Brenin Llwyd; he could summon the ghostly nuns of the Black Boy Inn to strangle the Sleepers; he could send in the Cŵn Annwn to rip out their throats.’2

  ‘The Cŵn Annwn?’ asks George.

  Phew, at least there are some legends that I know and he doesn’t.

  ‘The hellhounds – the white wolves of Snowdonia. Mostly they hunt on Cadair Idris. They are evil creatures that serve Gwyn ap Nudd,’ I say, raising one finger up and stroking the air in victory.

  ‘But those that belong to the Olde Deepe Magicke are not always willing to serve,’ muses Gran. ‘He will need the witches to weave very powerful spells … ’

  ‘That is so not one up to you,’ retorts George mimicking me. ‘I’m like a billion ahead, already.’

  ‘But,’ I stop. I think of the howling noises last night; that eerie baying before the rocks fell. The Cwn Annwn might hunt mostly on Cadair Idris, but with the High Magick broken, the whole of Snowdonia must be their hunting ground by now.

  ‘It is no use saying “but”,’ sighs Gran. ‘If we cannot alert the defenders of Wales and rally them to the standing stone, the Menhir of Mawr, to guard the Cave of the Sleeping Knights by dawn on 20 March, and there undo the spell cast by the witches, Oswald will win.’

  The defenders of Wales. ‘We need you, Henry,’ I whisper.

  ‘Yes, we need him,’ snaps Gran so her piping positively rings. ‘And if you are going to insist on bringing him into every conversation, I wish sometimes you’d call him by his Welsh name.’

  ‘His Welsh name?’ I say. ‘Y Ddraig Goch?’

  ‘No. Hendre. In Welsh it means “the home in times of winter”. Winter is when we need defending against many evils. Hendre is the name we give to those who defend the home.’

  ‘Oh,’ I blink. ‘I never knew.’

  I’m not sure I can get used to it either. I prefer Henry.

  ‘Gran,’ hisses George, ‘there’s still something you’re leaving out, isn’t there?’

  Gran nods, stares again at the tealeaves. ‘The last bit is very hard news,’ she whispers.

  ‘Just say it,’ breathes George.

  ‘Ellie is in mortal danger.’

  George goes very very still.

  ‘And you are too, Sior.’

  Outside the wind howls down from the mountain.

  ‘Oswald fears her love will triumph even over the Olde Deepe Magicke.’

  ‘Gran,’ warns George, ‘we need to know everything.’

  Grans sighs, adjusts her piping. ‘The leaves say blood will be spilt, and if Ellie loses faith, for even a fraction of a second, she and all those around her will die.’

  The flames in the fireplace gutter as if the breath of death has suddenly shot down the chimney. Gran starts, the saucer crashes to the floor, shatters. The tealeaves splatter on the hearthrug.

  Gran looks away. I think she’s biting her lip. ‘You only have three days,’ she finishes.

  Three days to find Henry.

  Three days to rally the forces of good.

  Three days to undo the witches’ spell.

  ‘Oh, no!’ I wail. ‘The 20th is the day I have to go back to court!’

  1 Of the cairn known as Carnedd Arthur, only a single stone now remains, known as the Menhir of Mawr. Legend has it that this stone shows the way to the Cave of the Sleeping Knights and has great powers including that of telling the future.[back]

  2 In Welsh mythology, the Cŵn Annwn are the white spectral hounds of Gwyn ap Nudd, the King of the Otherworld. The white wolves hunt on specific nights such as those of St John, All Saints, Christmas, New Year, St Agnes, St David … in the winter … chasing the souls of their unfortunate victims in the after life …[back]

  TWELVE

  ELLIE’S PHONE 1 March 14.17

  Status: Unavailable Foreva (well, seventy-two years or possibly less if H is around and still <3 s me)

  Recent updates:

  Rhiannon

  I’m sorry. I really am.

  Sheila

  Where are you – you old hag-bag – don’t make me have to ask you twice!!!!!!!!!!?

  Meryl

  Glad yr OK – got revision to do

  ‘There is nothing for it Elles,’ says George. ‘We’ll have to go down and confront Rhiannon.’

  ‘Ugh,’ I groan.

  ‘We need answers. It’s the only way we can start to figure out what’s happened to ol’ Hen.’

  ‘Don’t call him “Hen”.’

  ‘Why not? He’s pretty foul,’ grins George.

  That is so not funny. I am not going to acknowledge it. George may be jealous. He may even love me the way I love Henry. (And I love him too; just not like that.) But there are limits.

  ‘Plus he can flap his wings,’ continues George.

  Now I am officially annoyed.

  ‘Take your copper piping and be back before dark,’ says Granny Jones. ‘I’ll see what charms I can make, and what help can be summoned to keep you both safe.’

  I don’t need to ask why.

  ‘If we’ve only got three days and today is one of them,’ says George, ‘we’d better get going.’

  ‘Right,’ I say. I am usually a pretty big coward when it comes to confrontations. But Rhiannon has got this coming. How could she do that to me? The thought of driving up to her dad’s hotel, getting out and giving the Land Rover door a good hefty slam and stamping into the foyer, suddenly gives me one hell of a rush. Plus I am annoyed.

  Serve her right. How could she? Me – her bestie! The one who was willing to leave her lovely, warm, comfy, remote, wonderful family home in the middle of the night – and not any old night, mind you – but a rotten, cold, creepy night, and get on a freezing, nasty old mountain bike, which by the way, I have not forgotten, is now g
one forever and wasn’t all that nasty anyway – and like I said, cycle over treacherous, icy, haunted, spooky, scary mountains, chased by weird things, avoiding rockfalls, only to be falsely accused of something hideous!

  Oh yes, I definitely have a few things to say to Rhiannon.

  ‘Go easy on her, old girl,’ says George.

  I flash him a look. The look says: Don’t tell me what to do. And then I flash him another look, which says: You Had Better Choose Whose Side You Are On, George.

  And I know there’s no contest anyway. But you see George is always Mr Nice Guy – and because he knows that Rhiannon is totally bonkers about him, he’s always trying to defend her, which is weird logic, but I think it’s really a guilt complex. Sort of: I feel so totally bad that I am not in love with you, that I want to make everything else very easy for you, including making excuses to the girl who I really do love and thereby making her mad at me, which is very upsetting.

  Mr Nice Guy with an Uneasy Conscience.

  George pulls a smirky kind of slightly sorry grin. ‘I better take my axe, then,’ he says, ‘in case things get unpleasant.’

  ‘Feel free,’ I say. ‘I’m going to be slicing someone’s head off, myself.’

  Gran leaves us at the door. ‘Be very careful,’ she says. ‘If I’m not here when you get back, the key will be in the usual place. I am going up on to the mountain later to look for insects.’

  As you do.

  When the whole of Britain is under threat.

  I catch George’s eye, as he sticks a finger out of either side of his forehead. He waggles them, as if he is waving around insect antenna, and I get the giggles. I do not know why George always has to be so immature. Or why it has the ability to reduce me to childish giggling.

  ‘WOW, that is sooo fascinating, Nan,’ says George. ‘What sort of insects? Bugs? Beetles? Or are you after a few ants?’

  Gran sighs, and says, ‘If only you had read the Mabinogion, Sior, it would be a lot easier, but as you haven’t, and I don’t have time to instruct you, I will have to go and look for the insects myself.’

  As she turns around and closes the front door behind her, George calls out, ‘Ellie prefers worms. If you see the flying variety … ’

  We climb into the Land Rover. George starts it up. I look out across the hills, deep shadows are creeping into the valleys. A chill wind drills through the fleece of my jacket. It’s only three weeks (days for me, thanks to that fabulous witches spell) ’til 20 March and the first day of spring. And right now it feels like we are in the middle of the deepest, coldest winter ever.

  THIRTEEN

  It only takes us half an hour to get down off the mountain and through Llanberis. Soon we are on to the main approach to the Pen-y-Mynydd-Gwryd Hotel. That’s Welsh for the head of the mountain bottom or fathomdeep hotel, which is a stupid name, but differentiates it from the Pen-y-Mynydd Hotel, which is at the top of the mountain, obviously.

  George glances at me out of the corner of his eyes. ‘What’s the plan?’ he asks.

  ‘I don’t know about your plan,’ I say. ‘My plan is pretty simple – it involves one hefty punch on one pretty little nose.’

  ‘You can’t mean that,’ says George.

  ‘Try me,’ I return.

  ‘Aw, don’t tell me we drove all the way down here, just to spoil Rhiannon’s good looks now, did we?’ says George.

  ‘First things first,’ I respond, throwing him a mean-ass look.

  But really, I suppose not. Because if she’s got a broken nose, she won’t be able to speak properly, and we need her to explain herself, plus tell us what happened. Everything this time. I mean, all of it.

  ‘OK,’ I say, I’ll behave myself.

  ‘That’s my Elles,’ says George. ‘Just let me do the talking.’

  He’s probably right. I’m sure he can get a lot more out of Rhiannon just by smiling at her than I could with all the nose punches imaginable, even chucking a few broken teeth into the bargain.

  ‘In fact,’ says George, ‘I’ve got a good idea. Why don’t you just stay in the Land Rover and let me handle it?’

  ‘Think again,’ I say. ‘There is no way that I am not going to be there. If she’s got news about Henry, I’m going to hear it.’

  George sighs. ‘Come on then. Let’s get this over with.’

  We get down from the Land Rover. I give the door a big slam. It feels very satisfying. I could have slammed it a lot harder, but it is Mum’s after all, and it’s not in the best shape. So too much slamming might finish it off. And that would be another problem we don’t need.

  We walk up the main steps of the Pen-y-Mynydd-Gwryd Hotel. I look at the place where the two stone dragons used to stand. I remember how they cracked last New Year’s Eve. There are two large urns there now, filled with frozen flowers. I think of Henry. I stick my chin up, put my shoulders back. If Rhiannon thinks she can shop me to the police and then come back and have an easy time of it, she’s got another think coming.

  Inside the Pen-y-Mynydd-Gwryd Hotel, a thick Persian-style carpet covers the floor of the main foyer. Stags’ heads with their tangle of antlers sit high on the walls of the great staircase. Through an arched doorway, I can see the conservatory. The tables and chairs are all laid out in cosy clusters.

  The lady at the reception desk looks across at us, enquiringly. She knows us by sight and picks up the phone. ‘Friends here to see you, Miss Rhiannon,’ she says into the receiver.

  I hear Rhiannon’s voice, on the other end of the phone. ‘What friends?’ She sounds cross.

  I grab the phone off the receptionist. ‘It’s me, vomit-face,’ I say, ‘and if you don’t want a big scene, you’ll come down and talk to us right now.’

  I hear a distinct wail down the line, then Rhiannon’s voice very clearly: ‘Is George with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What have you told him?’ I smile as I hear a satisfying note of panic in her voice.

  ‘What do you think, dummy?’

  I hear more wailing and Rhiannon saying, ‘OK. OKAAAY. I’ll come. Go into the conservatory. Find a table. Don’t cause a fuss, Ellie??? Pleeeeeeease. This is my dad’s business, right?’

  ‘You started it,’ I snap.

  ‘OK. Just wait. I’m coming.’

  The truth is, I would actually quite like to cause a very big fuss, and I am not entirely sure that I won’t cause one. So I hand the receiver back to the receptionist, grab George by the arm, and give him a look: You Will Be There. On My Side. Whatever Happens.

  Together we go through the grand hall and into the conservatory. We pick the far end of it, by the doors that lead to the path that runs to the ornamental lake. We choose the table furthest away from everywhere and sit to wait for Rhiannon.

  We don’t have to wait very long. Rhiannon joins us in less than five minutes. That must be a record even for her. I can see she’s been crying.

  But, like, so what?

  She hasn’t got her eyelashes on. She hasn’t bothered with lipstick. Her hair is all stretched back into a ponytail. I do notice she’s managed to put a cunning bit of sparkly blusher on though.

  Ah! So she’s playing: Poor, Poor Me I Am Too Distressed To Put On My Make-up.

  Puke.

  She plonks herself down on the seat beside us, waves to the waiter and orders us all Coca-Cola and a large plate of munchies. Then she turns to George and fixes him with limpid eyes. I just watch.

  ‘You don’t believe everything you’ve heard, George,’ she says, ‘do you? You know every story has two sides.’

  I nearly choke on my soda.

  ‘You’re so lovely, I know you won’t believe anything thing bad of anyone. Please don’t believe bad things about me George.’ Limpid eyes and a limpet hand on his arm.

  I retch snort.

  ‘Hey Rhi,’ he says, ‘did I say I believed anything bad about you?’

  ‘OMG!’ I say. ‘George, how can you say that? One look from Rhiannon’s big brown mollusc eyes
and you forget everything we talked about.’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ he says. ‘That’s not fair, Ellie. You know I’m totally on your team; it’s just that we really should give Rhiannon a hearing. A girl has died and that is really serious. And we need to understand how and why. We need to know Rhiannon’s side of the story, don’t we?’

  I definitely Do Not Need To Know Rhiannon’s Side Of The Story. Please don’t forget I was the one who was there on the mountain when she pointed her finger at me. Oh and accused me of murder. I do not need to hear anything from Rhiannon, except where to find Henry and what’s happened to him.

  Rhiannon turns her tearful gastropods on me. ‘Please, don’t believe bad things about me,’ she says.

  Sea slime.

  ‘Please Ellie, I did say “sorry” before I had to tell the police it was you.’

  ‘Like that makes it OK?’

  ‘But I had to.’ Rhiannon’s eyes are welling up. Her voice escalates several octaves.

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ I say. ‘You didn’t have to do anything mean and horrible like that. Do you know what kind of a day I’ve had?’

  Rhiannon bursts into full-blown tears. ‘Do you know what kind of day, I’ve had?’ she wails.

  ‘This is not a competition on who’s had the worst day,’ says George. ‘Let’s stay focused. Fiona died. You were both on the mountain … ’

  ‘SHUT UP George!’ I’m shrieking now.

  ‘Don’t start on George,’ says Rhiannon, all protective and revolting. ‘It’s not his fault.’

  ‘No, it is not his fault,’ I say. ‘It’s YOURS, Rhiannon. I get up in the middle of the night. I get on my bike. I go out on my bike. I cycle at GREAT RISK to myself, all the way over to help YOU because you’ve got yourself into a massive problem on the other side of the mountain. And then when I get there, all the thanks I get is you telling the police that I did something that YOU KNOW I DIDN’T!’